Chapter 3 - The Cold Coral of the Terrace
Admiral Drake moved with desperate, cornered speed.
His hand plunged inside his dress tunic, reaching for the compact automatic holstered beneath his arm, his voice tearing into a panicked shriek:
“On the deck, Vance! Hands behind your head or I level this room!”
He never cleared the holster.
Before Drake’s fingers could wrap around the grip, the heavy French doors leading from the ocean terrace shattered inward in a shower of reinforced safety glass.
Marcus—Christian’s six-foot-six security chief—stepped through the curtain of spray like an armored golem.
The butt of Marcus’s tactical shotgun struck Drake’s right collarbone with the concussive, splintering crack of a baseball bat hitting pine.
CRACK.
The admiral screamed, his arm going limp, the sidearm slipping down through his tunic onto the marble floor. The impact drove him to his knees, his forehead striking the edge of the coral table, spattering red across the white linen runner.
The four naval escorts dropped their weapons onto the tiles immediately, raising their palms in the air, falling flat on their faces before the advancing commandos.
“Disarm them,” Christian commanded softly, not sparing a glance at the groaning officer.
Six armed operators in black tactical gear stripped the escorts, zip-tied their wrists, and dragged them out through the service corridor.
Christian stepped over the broken glass, stopping two feet from Admiral Drake.
He reached down, picked up the military treason warrant from the pool of spilled Bordeaux, and methodically tore the parchment into four clean pieces.
He let the wet scraps flutter down onto Drake’s bleeding shoulder.
“Take Admiral Drake down to the concrete vaults beneath the marina slipway,” Christian said. “Let him sit in four inches of tidal sludge until the Judge Advocate General arrives by helicopter from Norfolk.”
Marcus seized Drake by the collar of his dress whites, hauling the ruined officer backward across the terrazzo, leaving a smeared trail of blood toward the service exit until the heavy iron door slammed shut.
Christian turned his gaze back to Sienna De Luca.
The heiress was kneeling on the floor, her cloth-of-gold gown soaked in red wine, her manicured fingers clawing at the hem of Christian’s trousers in desperate, groveling terror.
“Christian! I love you! You know I love you! It was my father’s syndicate—they forced me to do it! If I didn't help them, they were going to disown me!”
Christian looked down at her with cold, clinical detachment.
He looked past her, meeting my gaze where I stood wrapped in his heavy charcoal coat, my hands trembling against the lapels.
“Maya,” Christian whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Vance?” I answered, my voice small and shaking.
“Did she tell you she would shut off your father’s ventilator?”
“Yes, sir,” I sobbed, the tears burning against my split eyebrow. “She said he wouldn't survive past midnight.”
Christian’s eyes hardened into two chips of burning amber.
He reached down with his right hand.
With slow, measured, bone-crushing leverage, his fingers closed around the eight-carat sapphire cluster ring on Sienna’s left hand.
He pulled.
The platinum setting scraped dryly over her knuckle, tearing the skin as it came free in his palm.
Christian turned his hand over, letting the hundred-thousand-dollar ring drop into the puddle of spilt wine at her knees.
Plink.
“You will never speak the name of an honest father again, Sienna,” Christian said softly.
He looked at his second lieutenant, Frank.
“Take Miss De Luca down to the lower archive vault. Lock her in the exact cage where she held the utility knife to Maya’s wrists. Strip her jewelry. Strip her gold. Let her sit on the bare concrete until the federal marshals arrive with her capital treason indictments.”
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Sienna shrieked, her acrylic nails snapping against the marble as two armed operators hauled her backward by the forearms, her screams echoing through the grand hall until the heavy marine bulkhead doors clicked shut forever.
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